


Nobody Home.

by MissFenixx



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Based on an interview, Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, One Shot, Other, Sad, Sad Paul McCartney, Songfic, but i think that's it?, from 1963, i have no clue how to tag, with ken dodd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25924405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFenixx/pseuds/MissFenixx
Summary: "I’ve got a pair of Gohills bootsBut I got fading roots"-Pink Floyd, 'Nobody Home'........................................................This is an agsty short songfic of Paul, based on a 1963 interview the boys did with Ken Dodd in which they were asked about their parents and it got weird and sad.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Mary Mohin McCartney & Paul McCartney
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Nobody Home.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'm working on my others fics as well, but I watched an interview of the Beatles with Ken Dodd from 1963 (it's on youtube) and their reactions when Gay asks them about their moms and dads was so sad... Of course I needed to make it sadder. I's a Paul-centric, just because. Also, i'ts a songfic: 'Nobody Home' by Pink Floyd.

_I’ve got a little black book with my poems in._

Ken Dodd was hilarious. Even that extra work in the middle of sets lightened up under his jokes, and Paul was having a great time, even if he spaced out a bit every now and then.

“What other relationships have you got in Liverpool?” Gay Byrne asked Ken.

“Liverpool? Ehm… Well, there’s me mom” the comedian answered. “You got you mom there don’t ya?”

_Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in._

Paul tries not to sound awkward, mouthing something unintelligible to fill the air. Another day, he might’ve been more discreet. Today, he’s a bit out of sorts.

But he’s not the only one in the interview, and while John doesn’t say anything -only smiles-, Ringo does nod and George answers with a strong “Yeah”, trying to send him a reassuring look. He knows.

_When I’m a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in._

“And you da?” Ken hurries, trying to make it better.

“Yeah” Paul answers, a bit releaved, and George imitates him in a bit more confident tone.

_I got elastic bands keepin’ my shoes on._

Understandable when John and Ringo, poor Ringo, stare and smile. Paul tries to pull himself together and be more confident: he’s _definitely_ not the one in the worst position right now.

_Got those swollen-hand blues._

The interaction hadn’t lasted more than a couple of seconds all in all, and Gay hadn’t seemed to have noticed anything.

“How many of you got moms and dads there? All four of you?”

_I got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from._

“Me” George is quick to answer, trying to attract attention to himself “I have, yeah”.

_I’ve got electric light._

Paul mumbles something unintelligible quite too loudly, halfway there, and manages to be even more ridiculous. He’s conscious he sounded like an orphan, which is far from the truth (if anything, that’s John), but he couldn’t quite keep himself from trying to assert that his dad was there, getting stuck with the ‘mom’ bit and not wanting to say he doesn’t have a mom, either.

_And I’ve got second sight._

John, still smiling, looks up and says in a mock dramatic stance, though softly: “Friends”. It hurts to hear. _My poor, beautiful Johnny._

_I got amazing powers of observation._

Ken is staring at him a bit, and John starts laughing harder, his eyes begging Ken to laugh it off with him. Ken obligues, and keeps talking.

“Y’know, and brothers and sisters, y’know”

“Relatives” John helps.

_And that is how I know_

That, they all have. John, too. Relatives. Brothers and sisters.

Ken seems a bit worried. “Any relatives to speak of?”

“I’ve got one to speak of” John answered, confidently, while scratching his sideburn. It hurts a bit to watch him.

_When I try to get through_

Paul tries not to look anywhere in order not to fuck up more. He feels tries to feel normal, like he thinks he _should._

“Oh, that’s good to know” Ken sighs, relieved, and suddenly everyone’s laughing.

_On the telephone to you_

Everyone laughs, tension tight still, and Paul has a smile plastered in his face. More uncomfortable laughter. More uncomfortable laughter. Paul tries to make his chest stop hurting. _Don’t be ridiculous._ He forces a laugh out.

_There’ll be nobody home._

Ken laughs, and then keeps joking.

“Go on, keep talking, that’s when I bought me bike…”

It hurts so much.

It’s _ridiculous._

“Are you ok?”

Paul’s backstage now, getting his bass ready for the next performance. They won’t _really_ play, but it has to look like it. He glances up at George’s worried face. He forces another smile.

Funny, how he always does that. Looks good on camera too. No one ever notices anymore: not even Paul, most times _._ He has a funny thought, then. _Who am I smiling for?_

He brushes it aside, too silly of a thought no matter how real it feels. He smiles for dad. Mike. The aunties. John. George. Ritchie. Ken Dodd. The world. An easy enough answer, he thinks. He doesn’t think about smiling for himself.

But now George’s looking at him, and they’ve got a performance ahead, and so he ignores the empty feeling in his chest, saving it up along with all the feelings he doesn’t want to ever deal with, like he’s always done since his mom died, and plasters a fake smile instead. _Fake it ‘till you make it._ Done it once, twice and for seven years on a row now. Seven exact years.

He doesn’t feel much. But he will, tomorrow.

He doesn’t think about what’s behind the many walls he built around himself, not wanting to really meet himself. Not wanting to feel, to think. Let’s not think.

“Yeah, don’t worry, Georgie. ‘M good. Poor John and Ringo, though. You saved us all with that loud talking.” He winks, seemingly unpreocupied. He _is_ unpreocupied.

George looks a bit disbelieving, but nods. “Yeah, lads had it rough. Had to come down savin’ all of you, didn’t I? Bet Ken hated having brought his mom up”

Paul laughs. “Bet he did”

_I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm_

_And the inevitable pinole burns_

_All down the front of my favorite satin shirt._

He’s packing his stuff up later, after the show, and the lads have left already after Paul insisted he’d be right behind them. It wasn’t weird of Paul, so they agreed easily.

Paul never felt truly depressed before. Doesn’t feel it now, either, doesn’t think. Because Paul doesn’t allow himself to feel bad things.

Now, though, he just feels a little bit empty. Like under all those layers, under that pretty face and polite personality, under the charm and the laughs, under his own skin, he’s a bit empty. It’s like he’s always out drinking and playing, and inside of his chest, inside that little box he doesn’t want to own, there’s nobody home.

But he fears what’s inside. It’s scary enough to think he’s made of nothing deep inside, but scarier to think he feels. Because he doesn’t think he can bare the pain.

The homemade food.

The lit fireplace and smell of medicaments.

The warm arms and familiar voice.

_I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers._

Losing a mom is painful, yes. But Paul keeps asking himself how come he can’t ever get over it. Strong men do. Real men do. But he can’t forget.

His father had cried, those nights. And he’d cried every night an exact year had passed, like tonight. Paul knew his father, and probably sensitive Mike too, would cry tonight.

Paul thinks maybe that tipped him a bit over the wrong side of his heart, back then, when he heard his father cry. During the day, Jim acted strong, but if you knew him it was easy enough to tell he was wrecked, and the sobbing at night could only confirm it. His brother had been inconsolable, too: he was only twelve, for God’s sake. Paul, for some reason, wasn’t. Wrecked. He was just really confused at first, and it took a while for him to realize he’d really _lost her._ And once he did, he felt so bad he decided to ignore it. It downed on him one night he hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone downstairs to get a glass of water, that he couldn’t really be weak on anyone. His father was crying, silently, sitting on a kitchen chair and holding a glass of whiskey. Paul thought that maybe, if he managed to act normal, he’d bring normalcy upon his dad, and Mike, and his household.

_I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain._

His auntie came every week to do the laundry and cook. Otherwise, it was Paul the one who learnt how to cook and clean, trying to break the abscence in their hearts. Eventually, his dad came back from grief enough to be himself (as much as he could) and take some duties from Paul in order to help.

_Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains._

Paul had never grieved his mother.

And in order not to face his own vulnerabilty and pain, he chose not to feel. Or at least, not to acknowledge his feelings. And under all the dressing, he’s starting to feel empty.

“You know, you can cry” John murmured that night on Paul’s hair. He’d insisted on being the big spoon that night, and Paul now understood why.

“Hm?” Paul tried to play dumb.

_I’ve got wild staring eyes._

John didn’t answer straight away.

“George told me. You know, Paul, you’re allowed to feel sad sometimes. You’re allowed to cry” he was unusually soft that night, fingers rubbing small circles on Paul’s chest.

_And I’ve got a strong urge to fly._

Suddenly, the softness really bothered Paul and he held John’s fingers still.

_But I got nowhere to fly to._

“I’m ok, John. Don’t need to _cry,_ I’m not a baby. It was a long time ago” he sounded harsher than he’d… No, he’d meant to sound harsh. But now he regretted it a bit “Thank you” he softened “but I’m fine”

_Ohh, babe_

John didn’t answer, and Paul feared he might’ve hurt him, but then the boy sighed and fully hugged Paul for the night. “Well, good night, then, i’m-not-a-baby McCartney. Sleep tight, I’m-fine”

_When I pick up the phone_

Paul almost smiled, and tried to ignore the knot on his chest that he didn’t want to acknowledge in order to sleep.

_I’m fine._

_There’s still nobody home._

_I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots_

_But I got fading roots_

**Author's Note:**

> PS: I made up that it was the anniversary of Mary's death, I don't know when that is.


End file.
